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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27238093">Unbidden</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersnicketyPuffin/pseuds/PersnicketyPuffin'>PersnicketyPuffin</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bionicle - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:36:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,961</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27238093</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersnicketyPuffin/pseuds/PersnicketyPuffin</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another idyllic day overseeing the City of Legends. Or is it?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Unbidden</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Turaga Dume got up and put his mask on for the day. Blinking the world into focus and stifling back a yawn, he stretched, rolling the burden of the years from his shoulders. An unbidden groan escaped as the weight of responsibility quickly settled into the vacancy. He couldn’t deny he was getting old, as much as he resented it. Hadn’t his dreams, mere moments ago, been filled with echoes of his triumphs as a Toa? With a decisive shake of his head, he banished the deceivingly sweet nostalgia away. He knew if he let it linger, it would quickly turn bitter.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Had anyone else been present, he was sure his morning routine would embarrass him. It wasn’t befitting for the Turaga of Metru Nui to grumble at his wilting window plant - a parting gift from the recently reassigned Toa Mangai of the Green, nor was it proper to kick away assortments of day-to-day items and armor pieces in need of regeneration, promising to get to them later.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Dume snatched up his staff, checked one last time to make sure his robe hung evenly, and was out the door. The two Rorzakh guards, permanently assigned to him, fell into perfectly synchronous step behind him. Even after all these years, and even with their inventor’s increasingly sophisticated updates to help smooth the mechanized officer into Metru society as seamlessly as possible, they still couldn’t greet him with the cheery, “Good morning, Turaga! Here is your itinerary for the day!” Yes, Dume missed having Matoran aides, but they had this unpleasant habit of falling for bribes and corrupting too easily. In fact, even now, the ringleader of a counterfeit Kanoka operation was waiting in the basement of the Coliseum to be interrogated. The only reason the Vahki had been able to bring him in was because one of Dume’s clerks had been selling Coliseum intelligence gang. That’s what it was, despite what the Matoran advisors in his council meetings insisted. So what, if there were ‘connotations’? Dume was sure he aged twice as fast in the council sessions. Destiny was sadistic, that it had him spending most of his time there, these days.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Toa Naho,” Turaga Dume greeted the Toa of Water who waited in said council chamber. His Vahki faded into the background.“I wasn’t aware we were meeting today.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Apologies, Turaga.” She nodded once in deferential greeting, speaking quickly. “Your clerks cleared a few minutes for me to update you on the Archivist situation.” The Toa was practically bouncing in place - clearly neither he nor she wanted her to be there longer than necessary. She had a young spirit, Naho did.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “By all means,” the Turaga said, opening a palm to her in invitation to speak freely. It took him a moment, though, to recall which Archivist situation she was taking care of. They were never in short supply.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “With the information from last week’s scouting, and taking into account his last known trajectory, there’s a good chance I can bring in rogue Archivist Mavrah into custody by mid-week.” A slight, self-satisfied and eager smile broke onto her Mask of Calculations, which had no doubt helped her pinpoint her quarry’s most likely hideaway.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Excellent work, Naho,” Dume congratulated her, and waved one of his Vahki over. Lhikan was right to leave her in charge while he was gone. “How many Vahki do you estimate you’ll need?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “One squad of Bordakh, and two Keerakh, if you can spare them.” Her answer was confident and precise, which he appreciated.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Did you get that?” Dume asked his Rorzakh, which chirped once in response, and otherwise remained stationary. He turned back to the Toa. “The Keelerakh will meet you outside the Coliseum, and you may pick up your squad of Bordakh at the nearest Ga-Metru hive. Great Spirit’s blessing to you, Toa.” It would be good to finally, finally put this whole Mavrah matter to rest. He’d been an acid fly in the armor for far too long. A few months of a personal Rorzakh shadow, a few more months under the Vahki’s Staff of Presence surveillance, and reassignment to street maintenance for a few years, Dume hoped, would mellow him out.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Turaga?” Naho turned once more, almost out the door. “Have you any word from Lhikan on his return?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “He’s sent me no word of delay. We’ve no reason not to expect him on time,” Dume reassured her. Toa Lhikan had accompanied his brothers on their reassignment to see them off to the Southern Continent - their Toa of the Green and Toa of Ice. However, Dume was worried about his courageous commander - Lhikan had been badly shaken by Toa Tuyet’s betrayal, and even moreso by Nidhiki’s. Although the events had passed years ago, those close to Lhikan knew it would always be yesterday for him. Dume suspected Naho shared the same worry for him. And now that troubles in the city had been stabilized, for decades now, the Toa Mangai were increasingly feeling destiny’s call elsewhere, which couldn’t be ignored. But for those left behind, it was like another branch in a Kanohi stress fracture - you never knew when it would break, but you knew it was inevitable. He would have to do something about that. After all, hadn’t he once led a team of Toa, not unlike the ones now serving his city? “I’ll let you know personally, if anything changes.” And she was gone. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    All too soon, the clerks began to show in petitioners to the council chamber. When necessary, this or that advisor was brought in, and the scribes switched out every hour or so. The chutes in Ko-Metru were malfunctioning again due to weather-related issues. Dume granted the petitioning engineer an writ of exception to halt his current projects and prioritize that one. The canals in Ga-Metru were filling with algae. He called in his botany advisor and authorized them to work with the petitioning students to assign scheduled canal maintenance by neighborhood. The Ga-Matoran had taken for granted the recently departed Toa of the Green living in their Metru. A Ta-Matoran came in accusing the Po-Matoran he had in tow of sabotaging his latest shipment of tools. Dume had to threaten to have his Rorzakh intervene if the two didn’t calm down. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Sometimes, Toa Lhikan would sit in on these open council sessions. Nobody dared say as much out loud, but many assumed, when the time came, the Matoran of Metru Nui would someday look to venerated a venerated Turaga Lhikan to lead them into the future. By Dume’s reckoning, though, the Toa of Fire still had many a good fighting year left in him. But then again, anyone could be destiny’s fool. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “This is an internal Ko-Metru affair,” he told the two Ko-Matoran before him, snapping back to present. “I’m afraid I can offer you no ruling.” And he dismissed them. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “From Onu-Metru, inventor Nuparu,” the clerk presented, sliding into the chamber as the two Ko-Matoran left. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    If he were able to call any Matoran a friend, Nuparu would be his first choice. He’d worked almost daily with the inventor when the brilliant Matoran’s Vahki initiative had launched, and the Turaga couldn’t help admire not just Nuparu’s work, but the way he went about it - making sure both he and his order enforcers put Matoran first. Dume had seen just how much damage the Vahki could do, during their prototype stages, and had no illusions to the power he held as their sole commander. Not even Nuparu could command them absolutely - the inventor had programmed his own authority away out of loyalty to his city and the Turaga who oversaw it. Dume had confided in Lhikan - if ever his station of power over the city and its army of robotic order enforcers started crossing his wires, Lhikan’s duty was to call him out on it. The Matoran and their well-being was first and foremost, not enforcing their productivity, but bolstering their livelihoods. The rest would follow.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Turaga Dume.” The inventor dipped in a quick bow, which was unnecessary, and continued without preamble. “I’ve the upgraded staffs for your Rorzakh.” Dume recognized the Matoran’s staccato speech pattern and near-constant fidgeting. There was a much more interesting project that this errand was keeping him from. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Suppressing an amused smile, Dume thanked him and waved in the two Matoran bearing the new Vahki staffs. “You’ve outdone yourself, Nuparu.” The Onu-Matoran mumbled something in acknowledgment, but was absorbed in the control panels that ran along one wall, holding one of the new staffs close above an input sensor. This specialized model of the Rorzakh Staff of Presence would route the eavesdropping feed directly to the telescreen in Turaga Dume’s council chamber. Dume hoped never to have to have reason to need this function, but with recent events, one could never be too careful. Not with the city’s very heart at stake. It had been too quiet for too long, the days were even beginning to blur together. Nobody believed the Shadowed One and his legions of dark operatives were truly through with the City of Legends. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Goodbyes were short, monosyllabically so on Nuparu’s part, and that wasn’t unusual. If need for a new generation of Toa ever arose in the city, and Dume prayed to Mata Nui that it wouldn’t, he believed Nuparu would honor that station well.“How many more are waiting?” Dume asked the clerk who next poked her head in. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Four, Turaga,” she reported. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “No more, after that,” he told her.He had hoped to make it to the schools before they closed, but that wouldn’t happen today. He was to meet Toa Obrakun, one of the remaining Toa Mangai of Ice, in the interrogation chambers to confidentially hear any information gleaned from the high-security prisoners. One was the Kanoka counterfeiter, another was a Le-Matoran with carefully inconsistent records in his dealings with Stelt, and another was the captain of a ship that had made an unauthorized stop much too close to Odina for anyone’s liking. Although nobody liked the job, a Toa interrogator often had more success than a fellow Matoran, or Vahki. Unfortunately, Toa Mangai of Ice, Kadasi had been the one to leave on reassignment to the Southern Continent last week. His rare and precious Kanohi Rode had simplified countless interrogations. After the incident with the Kanohi Dragon, many a Matoran slept easier at night knowing a surplus of Ko-Toa were watching over them. But he’d earned his reassignment, and Dume had been glad to sign off on it, if not rueful in the slightest. Even with Kadasi gone, there were still three of his ice brothers in the city. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>     It was only two hours past mid-day, although it felt like it should be suns-set.These were ember days, as he privately named them.He told himself, as the day wore on, that he should be thankful for these days. They were concrete evidence that they were in a time of peace. Managing day to day matters of his people was a privilege afforded by hard-earned prosperity, and it honored the Great Spirit to do the work to the best of his ability. Sometimes he recalled the inferno days of the Dark Hunter War, his people constantly living - and dying - in fear, the gnawing dread of betrayal waiting just around the corner, the sleepless weeks dragging and flying by in a detached but detailed haze. The juxtaposition always helped him appreciate the leisurely open council days. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Thank you,” Turaga Dume dismissed the scribe, scrambling for his name. He was a newer scribe, but from the glimpses Dume had gotten, diligent and thorough. “Kopeke,” he remembered. “Good work today.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “For the Great Spirit,” the Ko-Matoran returned by rote. All work you could be proud of was dedicated to the Great Spirit, of course. Sometimes it just helped to say it aloud. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “For the Great Spirit,” Dume agreed, but to himself, for the Matoran was already gone. The Turaga heaved a sigh, and sat down at long last. He had less than half an hour before he had to meet the Toa of Ice downstairs in the basement. Interrogation chambers, high-security holding cells, it went by many names, but officially didn’t exist. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “One of these days,” the Turaga said to his Rorzakh, who had patiently, perfectly, stood sentry the whole session, “I’ll be able to get some fresh air.” For most of the week, Dume had been in either open or closed council sessions, advisor assemblies, or receiving foreign ambassadors. None of those events were held outside the Coliseum. Next week, though, he was to referee a debate between top Ga-Metru students and the handful of Ko-Matoran nominated for official Scholar status. He looked forward to that, greatly, and made a mental note to read up on their debate topics beforehand. But that was a joke, because when would he find the time? </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “All right,” Turaga Dume heaved a sigh that was so powerful it pushed him wearily to his feet. “Downstairs.” He waved along his Rorzakh, heading for the electro-lift. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    The lift stopped at the arena floor, which it wasn’t supposed to. Annoyed, he jabbed the sublevel button again with the head of his staff. He’d have to put in a ticket to get an electrician to look at that. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    The natural light streaming in from the one window cut off, and a change in pressure that pushed against the sensitive parts in his audio-receptors. That was the only way Dume knew he was now below the surface of the city, because the doors sprang open to reveal a well-lit corridor identical to the ones in the Coliseum’s pinnacle levels, often used to house ambassadors or overworked advisors. Politician or prisoner, one’s amenities while staying in the Coliseum varied little. Whether that said more about one group or another, Dume wasn’t sure. On his more dismal days, he wasn’t even sure the difference. He bid his sentries follow him with a gesture of his staff. They made to follow obediently. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    As soon as Dume was clear of the lift’s heavy metallic doors, they slammed closed. He jumped back with a cry of alarm, ducking all that was left of the first Rorzakh as it sprayed out toward him in a shower of sparks and coolant. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    The brightness from the spark shower died, leaving Dume in complete darkness. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    The lights had gone out. All but the lights streaming out of the one window in each holding cell door. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Initiate protocol Dermis Shell,” Dume breathed. But the remaining Rorzakh’s only response was the resounding crash as it, too collapsed inside the lift. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Was something in there with it? </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Dume’s heartlight flashed rapidly, even though he was holding perfectly still. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Slow, creeping movement along the floor caught his eye. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Was that…? No. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    There, seeping under the crack of the first interrogation chamber? Surely, not…</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    He reached the growing puddle, not realizing he’d consciously moved, stooping to test the liquid with a trembling hand. But the acrid stench was unmistakable - hemodermis. Blood. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    The sight of the remains of the Kanoka counterfeiter inside struck him like a fist. He stumbled back with a cry. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Turaga Dume had barely regained his footing when a piercing scream echoed in the fouled corridor. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “No!” he roared, leaping at the second door from where it issued. “No!” He battered the unforgiving door as it showed him the second prisoner - the boat captain with Steltian ties - writing on the floor. She was covered in a mass of slime. “No!!” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    It wasn’t slime. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    It was leeches. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Writhing. Pulsing. Screeching. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Feeding. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>  <em>  Kraata.</em> He realized, sinking to the floor as the Matoran’s screams were cut off abruptly. He nursed his wrist, which he didn’t remember breaking. The door didn’t even have a scratch on it. “No,” he whispered, voice shaking more than he was. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Breath escaping in hoarse sobs, unbidden. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Closed eyes helped nothing, death grinned obscenely at him there. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>    Dume. </em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    His eyes snapped open. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    His breathing steadied. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    His heartlight slowed. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    All to make room for a different, crashing fear that rolled through him, more powerful than any bioquake. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    He couldn’t look away.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    He couldn’t breathe. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    He was drawn toward the last interrogation chamber, trancelike. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    And the door opened for him, flooding him in clinical, ice sharp light. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    And what he saw rooted him to the spot.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    The last Matoran lay against the far wall. Head propped up at an unnatural angle. Staring far off, at nothing. He was almost eclipsed totally by the large, silver sphere he lay beside. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    A sphere? </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Toa Obrakun hung suspended in the air, motionless, and rotating slowly. Eyes and mouth open wide in a scream that would never be. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    A slow laugh, deeper than the abyss in the Silver Sea, roiled like poison from the one holding the Toa aloft.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    His shadow armor chilled the air. “Dume,” he repeated.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    And the Makuta smiled the sure smile of victory. “It was almost too easy.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    The Toa dropped to the ground and lay still. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    The silver sphere rose in turn, coming between the Turaga and the terrorizer. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    The shadows cast by the stark interrogation lights came alive, burning. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Dume could do nothing as the shadows snaked around him, constricting. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    He could do nothing as the Makuta, with that smile straight from Karzahki approached. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Ripped Dume’s mask from his face. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Replaced it with a screeching Kraata. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>    Sleep, knowing you’ve failed.</em> The Makuta’s voice reverberated inside Dume’s mind, which could hold nothing but the present horror. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    The sphere let out a mechanical hiss, and a panel slid open, revealing it to be hollow. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Cold.</p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    Dark. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    “Your destiny awaits,” rumbled the Makuta. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    And the Turaga of Metru Nui crumbled, his fire smothered by the master of shadows. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><hr/>
<p></p><div>
  <p> </p>
</div><div>
  <p>    'Turaga Dume' got up and put on his mask for the day. </p>
</div><div>
  <p> </p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Originally published as 'The Last Ember Day'. </p>
<p>I wanted to take a stab at what the real Turaga Dume may have been like as head honcho, since we only really get to see the fake Dume. Also good opportunity to try something scary in time for Halloween!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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